


The Spoils

by neomeruru



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Christophe "Bad Decisions" Giacometti, Drunk Sex, Dubious (but freely given) Consent, M/M, Past Christophe Giacometti/Victor Nikiforov, Schrodinger's Virgin Yuuri, Unsafe Sex, don't do this at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 14:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11277630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru
Summary: Chris has a secret he'll take to the grave: he and Yuuri hooked up the night of the banquet in Sochi.





	The Spoils

**Author's Note:**

> I said: self, wouldn't it be a nice idea if you wrote a thing where Chris and Yuuri hooked up, and then this happened. As it does.
> 
> For [pageleaf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pageleaf), [dance_across](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across), and [iodhadh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh), who are very ~~terrible~~ good and loving enablers.
> 
> Massive disclaimer applies: you know, and I know, canon knows, everyone knows that Yuuri was catastrophically blackout drunk the night of the banquet. Chris doesn't, and is also pretty drunk, and acts accordingly. They make bad decisions. If this squicks you out, best turn back now!

It's a foregone conclusion: Christophe goes home with Yuuri that night.

 _Home_ , in this case, is Yuuri's nicely appointed junior room on the eighteenth floor of the Radisson Blu Sochi. Chris is on the twelfth floor and he almost makes a point of saying his room is closer, but by that time Yuuri has him backed into the mirrored wall of the elevator and Chris is reconsidering the virtues of haste. 

"You're a good dancer, I knew you'd be a good dancer," Yuuri is muttering, somewhere in the vicinity of Chris's ear. His eyes are fever-bright, the alcohol flush high on his cheeks. He doesn't slur at all, which is a bit of a marvel because even Chris's words are starting to feel a little square in his mouth, and admittedly he's an accomplished lush. Yuuri only gets a little whine in his voice, and it's charming that Yuuri wheedles and cajoles when he's drunk. His accent makes every syllable careful and precise.

They're both, by generous definition, back in their clothes after their impromptu banquet striptease. Yuuri has his pants back on, his shirt imperfectly buttoned. His tie hangs around his neck, half inside the collar and half out. He's still wearing his socks. Chris, less of a stranger to nudity, has at least his shirt and underwear on. His pants are folded over his arm, and his arm is folded around Yuuri, and Yuuri's body is all limbs pooling into the places Chris isn't: against him, around him, pushing him up against the wall with surprising strength.

The _heat_ radiating off of Yuuri is fully distracting, the way it seeps into his skin where they touch. He finds himself spreading his feet, lowering himself. Yuuri's mouth is hot and wet on his neck, his teeth unforgiving, and Chris can feel the promise of a bruise blossom across his skin. He slides his hands under Yuuri's shirt, up his back, tugging him closer until their legs are intertwined.

Yuuri, as muscular as he is, feels as light as a bird, even while straddling his leg. He hitches his weight up onto Chris — which in turn presses Chris harder against the wall of the elevator — and rocks against him, his teeth releasing their hold on his neck as he starts making little breathless _hah, hah_ noises instead.

"Yeah, yeah, Yuuri, yeah," Chris encourages, palming two handfuls of Yuuri's perfect ass and hauling him up onto his thigh. Yuuri's hand slaps the wall behind Chris's head and squeaks over the mirrored surface.

Chris turns his head to nuzzle under Yuuri's ear, where his skin is soft and still smells faintly of champagne and cologne and the good clean sweat of exertion. He can feel the rabbit-beat of Yuuri's pulse under his lips.

"Good at this too," Yuuri mumbles, almost to himself. "Always knew you'd… be good at this."

"Yeah, you too," Chris answers, because anyone who's seen Yuuri skate probably wishes they were in Chris's — ah, socks. He's not wearing shoes, he realizes, as his feet slip on the shiny linoleum floor of the elevator under their joined weight.

Yuuri groans as his feet hit the ground again and Chris slides out from underneath him. Chris scrabbles to recover and pulls himself up to his full height, then cups Yuuri's face with both hands to shush him between kisses. Yuuri's a good kisser, even as exhausted as they both are after competition and dance and drink, the way he melts into Chris with single-minded determination.

"Come to my room, stay with me," Yuuri murmurs against his lips, as if Chris hadn't fully committed to the direction of the night when Yuuri had gotten undressed. The elevator comes to a stop, momentum making them weightless for a moment in each other's arms. Yuuri sways into him for one giggling moment, then the door opens and he slides his hands down Chris's arms, leading him backwards out of the elevator.

Chris has done this walk dozens of times, in different hotels, in different countries, with different people in all permutations of quantity, gender, and profession. It's never once gotten old. Yuuri leads him down the hallway exactly how he dances: with a smile on his lips and a tilt to his head that seduces Chris onward more than do Yuuri's hands intertwined with his.

Chris pulls Yuuri to him and Yuuri comes easily, slotting Chris against him in a fairly decent approximation of a tango embrace. Yuuri takes the lead like a natural despite the height difference, which suits Chris just fine; he has his preferences, sure, but he's never let that get between him and adventure. Yuuri's frame is perfect, his hand on Chris's back both possessive and flirtatious. They glide a few steps down the hall together, laughing when Chris's shoulder hits a doorframe and their feet tangle in the ensuing recovery.

"That's enough," Chris says, turning him in his arms so they're in a reverse embrace, Yuuri's back to Chris's front with his arms crossed in front of him. He presses a quick kiss to the sweaty skin of Yuuri's nape, then another, quite liking the way it makes Yuuri grind back on him. He can feel the cleft of Yuuri's ass rubbing against him through fewer layers of clothing than there should be.

"Damn, Yuuri," he groans, all but stopping in the middle of the hallway as Yuuri unabashedly ruts back on him. Yuuri must be on the same page because he uncrosses his arms, dragging Chris's hands across his tight body to where Yuuri's dress pants tent obscenely. He changes their grip to guide Chris, rubbing over his thighs, his stomach, pressing down harder with a moan when Chris cups him firmly.

There's no finesse, just pressure and Yuuri writhing against him, making those breathless noises again as Chris gropes him with both hands and little subtlety. He might come right here, right in this hallway under the heel of Chris's hand, or Chris might go first. Wouldn't that be a shame, despite the thrill it sends coursing down Chris's spine. Yuuri's top button is still undone, just enough for Chris to get his fingers in, to slip past his underwear to card through the silky hair there, where the heat is coming off of Yuuri like from a fire.

When Chris's fingertips brush against the impossibly soft skin of his goal, Yuuri sucks in a sharp breath and groans, pushing himself up into Chris's hand. His voice is just breath through his teeth as Chris encircles him with a vee of thumb and forefinger, not taking him in hand, just pressing down as Yuuri bucks against him.

The breath coalesces into words, or at least sounds. "V— Vi—" Yuuri groans, "Ah, _Victor_ , ah, yes."

Sobriety, unfortunately, goes through Chris like a bullet.

Chris has very few requirements of his bedpartners; that they not be thinking of someone else isn't one of them. Sobriety isn't even necessarily one either, if he's being honest. Plenty of Chris's best stories start out with all parties involved getting good and loose first. But there's a _line_ , and his coach's patient entreaty to _please, Christophe, choose carefully, for your future, if nothing else_ rings in his ears.

Chris is a good man. Not a saint, of course — the only miracle he'd ever pulled off was, once, escaping Victor's hotel room _while his coach was coming in_ , and even then, it had been a close call and he's halfway certain Yakov knows and is secretly holding it over him anyway — but he has a moral compass. He has standards. Critically, he has a clean record, both criminally and in the court of public opinion.

And, unfortunately, right now, what he also has is a flagging erection and a lap full of skater who's probably too drunk to fuck.

"Well, shit," Chris sighs, feeling the night drain out of him. His forehead drops to rest against the knobs of Yuuri's spine, and he slips his hand regretfully out of Yuuri's pants. "I didn't realize you were so — we shouldn't."

Yuuri's silence is loud. 

Chris fills it with noise, as he does. "It's quite alright if I'm not who you really want," he says, though Victor's shadow feels a little heavier than usual. He's never been jealous of Victor before — at least, not out of the rink — and it doesn't make sense to start now. In a parallel universe, maybe it would have been Victor and Chris tangled in each other and stumbling down this hallway to their inevitable completion. Or maybe it would have been all three of them, Victor and Chris sharing Yuuri between them as they had on the dance floor. It wouldn't have been the first time, not for the two of them anyway.

But something in Yuuri's stillness rankles. "I don't blame you," Chris continues, lightly, "But I do draw the line at drinking so much you don't realize who I _am_."

He feels the little hitch in Yuuri's breath, a small aborted laugh. "You're conceited," Yuuri murmurs, turning first only his head to peer up at Chris. His heavy-lidded gaze is a challenge. " _Don't you know who I am_ ," he mocks under his breath as he completes the turn to face him.

"Christophe Giacometti," Yuuri says, enunciating carefully. "Grand Prix silver medallist. Trophée de France, gold. Skate Canada, silver. Three-time silver medalist at Worlds. Yeah, I know who you are. Do you know me?" Yuuri's finger pokes Chris dead-centre in the middle of his chest. "Watch me."

And with that demand, Yuuri pushes off against Chris with just his finger and leaps backward, spinning once in his sock feet before breaking into a move-for-move recreation of the showstopping step sequence in Chris's free skate. It takes him down the hallway, leaving Chris staring dumbly after him as Yuuri faithfully mimics every shimmy, every twist, even the precise positioning of his hands as they tease and flirt across his body.

Yuuri stops at least fifteen meters away, embellishing the final move with a series of fouetté turns in place of the combination spin that usually tests Chris's stamina. He finishes with an arabesque, the little shit, arms extended to Chris. Chris can see the quick rise and fall of Yuuri's chest from here, but his body is steady. He drops his leg as Chris approaches, one foot behind the other and turned out like the dancer he is.

Chris sucks in a breath as he comes close enough to slide his hands under Yuuri's shirt, grabbing him by the obscene bend of his back. Yuuri doesn't so much as tremble beneath his hands, and his eyes are clear.

"I know who you are," Yuuri repeats, running his hands up Chris's shirt to take hold of him by the open shirt collar. He tugs until Chris leans down, until their lips almost touch. "I know what I want to do tonight," he whispers. Their lips touch.

"Fuck it, yeah, sure," Chris whispers back, emphatically, and Yuuri smiles against his lips and pulls him the rest of the way, sealing their bodies together with a kiss.

_________________________________________________

They stumble the rest of the blessedly short distance to Yuuri's room entwined with each other, taking turns leading until Yuuri pulls back and looks around. His forehead creases in thought, chasing down the memory of his room number, until he laughs and backtracks two doors. "Too far, too far," he mumbles, then something in Japanese as he pats his pockets.

"Let me help you," Chris says, coming up to bracket him from behind. Yuuri giggles as he puts his palms flat on the door. Chris slides his hands into Yuuri's pockets and finds the key card right away — which is a relief considering where Yuuri's pants have been tonight — and makes an executive decision.

"Hmm, where is it," Chris breathes against Yuuri's neck as he runs his fingertips along the swell of Yuuri's cock through his pocket. Yuuri huffs in amusement as Chris kicks his feet farther apart. "No, not here," Chris continues, slipping one hand out of Yuuri's pocket to slide down between their bodies. Yuuri breaks first and moans when Chris traces his cleft with his fingers, even through his pants. "Here?" he asks innocently, cupping Yuuri's balls.

Yuuri's forehead hits the door with a thump. "Christophe," he warns.

"Oh, I like it when you say my name, darling," Chris says, leaning in to nip at Yuuri's ear. "Not thinking of Victor now, are you?"

He gets a thrill much like victory when Yuuri shakes his head, whispering _Christophe, Christophe_ , which is likely a sign he's getting invested in the wrong emotions. But _fuck_ emotions, he thinks as he pins Yuuri to the door. Yuuri moans, kicking back under his hands.

Chris kisses Yuuri under the ear, releasing him as he does. "Call me Chris, love, I think we're there," he murmurs, sliding his roaming hand back into Yuuri's front pocket. "Ah, here it is. Don't know how I missed it the first time."

He keys the card through the door with a practiced hand and Yuuri opens it on the buzzing green light, leading Chris through. He hits the overhead light as they go, stumbling past the ensuite bathroom and the closet door together. Yuuri's room is exactly like his, down to the athletic bags and suitcases strewn across the floor space between the single king bed and the window.

Yuuri pulls away and sits on the bed, legs splayed. He looks up at Chris with heavy eyes as he pulls off his tie. Chris grins and takes off his socks as he follows, hopping a little and making Yuuri's smoulder falter with a small laugh.

"Chris," he says, smiling, trying it on for size and finding it in three syllables. Chris puts one knee on the bed and leans in, kissing Yuuri's cheek and the curl of his mouth as he unbuttons Yuuri's shirt the rest of the way.

Yuuri tilts his head to kiss him properly, a sweet and exploratory kiss as he returns the favour and pushes Chris's shirt off of his shoulders. There's a moment where his shirt is around his wrists and Yuuri's hands still, tightening in the fabric. He nips Chris's lip and pulls back, looking up at him with a question.

"Like this?" he asks softly, punctuating the question with a twist of the fabric that cinches Chris's wrists together.

If Chris were walking, he'd be tripping over himself. As it is, he just nods and tries to lean in to capture Yuuri's lips again, but Yuuri redirects and kisses down his jaw instead. Chris keeps as still as he dares, perched precariously on one knee with his hands bound behind his back as Yuuri lays a line of kisses and claiming bites down the muscle of his neck. He releases Chris's wrists and runs his fingers up his shirtless sides, coming in to circle Chris's nipples until they harden enough to pinch.

Chris sucks in a breath through his bitten lip and twitches as Yuuri digs his nails in, a sharp little pain that zings right down to his cock. Yuuri makes a noise of discovery and does it again, harder, twisting them wickedly, and Chris can't help the full-body jerk that follows. "Yeah, that, I like that," he groans. Yuuri rolls his eyes, like, _obviously_.

Yuuri trails his fingers down Chris's chest, following the line of downy hair that starts from his chest and thickens where it disappears under the waistband of his tight black underwear. He dips his fingertips into the waistband, pulling it, running his nails along the sensitive skin underneath. He curls his hand so the heel of it cups Chris's hard length through the fabric, and Chris lets out a little encouraging noise.

His underwear is skimpy, naturally; it's easy for Yuuri to grab the whole front and pull it to the side, freeing Chris's cock and balls out the leg hole. The thong digs into his cleft, rubbing against his hole as Yuuri pulls it tight and wraps it in his fist. With the other hand, he traces one delicate nail down Chris's foreskin.

"So fat," Yuuri says, sounding almost distracted as he circles that finger around Chris's head and smears the precome that beads there without the restriction of his underwear.

"Rude," Chris laughs, and Yuuri looks up at him with a coy smile. With the hand fisted in his underwear he pulls Chris to him and kisses him lightly on the tip of his cock, then licks up the frenulum to take the head in his mouth.

Chris's hands flex with the urge to touch as Yuuri sucks him, gently at first, just tongue and lips around the sensitive ridge. His restraint is rewarded when Yuuri takes him deeper, earnest and sloppy and sweet. His other hand traces the muscles of Chris's thick thigh, cupping his asscheek as it flexes to keep Chris balanced on that knee. His fingers graze against the thong pulled tight against his hole and Chris gasps, thrusting forward into Yuuri's mouth, but Yuuri just makes a pleased noise and takes it.

"You're good at this," Chris says, and Yuuri looks up at him with those big brown doe eyes and a hungry mouthful of Chris's cock. It's enough to drive a man to drink. Luckily, they both have had a head start.

Yuuri pulls off his dick with a sloppy _pop_ and wipes his wet mouth on Chris's thigh. He relinquishes his hold on Chris's underwear and uses that hand to stroke him while he leans back to look up at Chris proper, swaying a little. "Thanks," he says, unabashed. "I've thought about it a lot."

 _More than just thought, I hope_ , is an idea that Chris examines and immediately files away under _none of your damn business, when someone's kind enough to put your dick in their mouth_. "Oh?" he says instead, striking as much of a pose as one can with his arms held behind his back. "With me, really? I'm flattered."

Yuuri snorts and rolls his eyes, but doesn't stop jerking him. Which is a good sign, actually, even though the look on his face screams _of course not, you narcissistic fuck_. "Yeah, sure," he says, proving that they're both obfuscating the truth for the other's benefit. Oddly enough, it puts Chris more at ease.

Yuuri takes him in his mouth again and Chris lasts all of about two minutes before wrestling his hands out of the tangled dress shirt and sliding them into Yuuri's hair. He doesn't push — no need, Yuuri's enthusiastic enough already — but runs his fingers through the coarse black strands, scratches a little at Yuuri's scalp when it elicits a pleased note in the back of his throat that vibrates right into Chris's core.

Yuuri is good, it's no lie — plenty of people have been more skilled, sure, but Yuuri has that particular combination of blind confidence, enthusiasm, and a drunken inability to get hung up on the details that trumps skill every time. He groans like he's the one getting his dick sucked. Plus, Chris is an easy drunk.

He runs his thumb down the bridge of Yuuri's nose and over the cheekbone, cupping his face. "What are your plans, beautiful?" he murmurs, and Yuuri looks up at him as if coming out of a daze. "If you want me for anything else…"

Yuuri licks up the underside of Chris's cock, sucking one more kiss as he goes, and sits back on his hands. "I have an idea," he says, spreading his knees imperiously. Chris's eyes fall to the tent of Yuuri's trousers, and he aches in sympathy. He reaches between them to finish the work he'd started before, unzipping his pants and helping Yuuri shimmy out of them. It takes some gymnastics and a few laughs, but eventually Chris has Yuuri spread out on the bed underneath him, not even remotely near the pillows, both of them entirely and blissfully naked at last.

It's not even sexy, for a moment; Yuuri is grinning up at him like a fool, lips wet and kiss-bitten, still flushed from the alcohol, and Chris finds himself grinning back. Yuuri takes his face with both hands and guides him into a kiss that's deep and messy and warm, friendly despite the incongruent nakedness of their intertwined bodies. And then it's hot all over again, the way Yuuri remembers halfway through that he's naked and hard. He shamelessly pulls Chris closer, chasing the inartful sensation of their cocks rubbing together.

"I wanna do you," Yuuri mumbles into his mouth, and then says again, louder, when Chris pulls back to give him a fond look.

" _Do_ me any way you like, _petit_ ," teases Chris, because he can't help himself his baser desires at this point. Yuuri flushes even deeper and slaps his hand over Chris's grinning mouth.

"Don't tease me… you know what I meant," Yuuri grouses, and Chris laughs and takes Yuuri's fingers in his mouth. Yuuri watches in rapt attention, groaning a little when Chris scrapes his teeth over the knuckles.

Chris is a professional, despite all appearances to the contrary off the rink. He pays attention to his competition, and he's coming to understand how Yuuri's gotten to the top: sheer dogged persistence. He comes to this realization when Yuuri's free hand sneaks up to pinch his nipple again, making him gasp in surprise and relinquish Yuuri's fingers. Yuuri uses his free hand to grab him around the back of the neck, his fingers wet as they pull him in for a biting kiss, while Chris groans and writhes under the wicked pain of Yuuri's nails.

"Cheat, cheat," Chris manages when he comes up for air. All the same, he reaches between them and wraps his hands around both of their cocks, stroking them together until Yuuri relents and needs both his hands to cover his face. Chris leans in and retakes control of the kiss, pleased to have the upper hand for what, if he's being honest about his reaction to Yuuri's surprising dominant streak, will probably be the last time tonight.

"What've you got for lube?" he asks, slowing so he's just lightly palming Yuuri.

Yuuri pulls his hands from his face and looks blankly at the ceiling for a few long seconds. "Hand lotion? From the hotel?" he says, finally, then shakes his head. "That's it."

Chris groans and rests his forehead on Yuuri's collarbone. "Not with the condom—" he stops abruptly and sits up straight, looking at his discarded clothes, then laughs incredulously. "—which is in my jacket, which is probably still downstairs."

Yuuri groans and flops his arms out on the bed in abject surrender. "So, nothing, then."

" _Au contraire_ ," Chris croons, circling the crown of Yuuri's cock with his fingertips until the other cracks a smile. "We have hand lotion, and hands, yes?"

Yuuri's smile gets wider and he reaches up to hook Chris's teeth with two fingers. "And mouths."

"And mouths," Chris agrees readily. He kisses Yuuri's fingertips before crawling backwards off the bed, leaving Yuuri sprawled comically with his lower legs off the bed and his cock waving in the air. He leans over and pulls it down with his fingertip, letting it go so it sproings back against Yuuri's stomach. "Stay here," he says as Yuuri swats him away. "Get comfortable. I'll be right back."

Yuuri shoots him a distasteful look and flops over, wiggling up the bed as Chris laughs and makes his way to the bathroom.

The bathroom light is bright, but flattering; Chris pauses to admire the angry flush around his nipples and the bright red bite marks all up his neck, both of which'll bruise nicely tomorrow. The bathroom counter in Yuuri's room is neatly lined with little travel bottles, including a moisturizer that Chris picks up and scrutinizes, filing away the brand for later. He grabs the hotel-branded bottle of hand lotion and pops the top. Citrusy. It'll do.

He fills one of the cups with water and drinks it, staring at his reflection, then fills it again and brings it and the hand lotion out to where Yuuri has rearranged himself against the pillows. His glasses are off and he's dozing a bit even as his hand moves lazily on his dick, but he perks up again when Chris offers him the water.

"Thanks," he says, when he finishes the cup, and Chris takes it and puts it on the nightstand. He sits on the bed and Yuuri leans in to kiss him like he'd been waiting for it. His lips are cold, even as Chris can still feel the heat radiate off of his flushed skin. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah," Chris says, wiggling the little bottle in his hand. "Do you want—"

Yuuri sticks his hand out before Chris is finished, two fingers extended. Chris laughs and squeezes a generous line of sweet-smelling lotion — the label says _satsuma_ — onto his fingers. It's strangely tender, and unexpectedly intimate. Yuuri catches his eye and smiles, softer than ever, and Chris's stomach flips with the sudden sensation of being allowed into this private world of Yuuri's.

Then Yuuri grins and smacks his thigh with his free hand, urging Chris onto him, and the moment passes.

Yuuri's slender, despite all the muscle, so it's not a stretch at all to straddle his tight stomach. Chris leans forward to prop himself up with his elbows on either side of Yuuri's head, sliding his hands under the pillows. Yuuri gets his hand between their bodies, feeling his way underneath Chris with gentle fingers.

"Mmmn," Chris encourages when Yuuri's fingers reach his hole, tilting his hips. Yuuri's fingertips catch, sliding wetly with lotion over and over until Chris has half a mind to tell him to get on with it, but it's nice anyway, a weightless moment of anticipation before Yuuri finally breaches him with one finger.

Chris makes a noise in the back of his throat and tucks his head into the crook of Yuuri's neck. Yuuri stills. "Okay?" he asks.

Chris nods. "Yeah, yeah," he manages, finding himself unconsciously rocking back on Yuuri's finger. "I just — I really like this. So, ah, take your time."

He can feel the kiss Yuuri presses to the shaved side of his head, a little askew from the position, but it's fine because more importantly Yuuri starts moving again, tentatively at first as Chris's body offers its little resistance. Chris didn't lie, though; he genuinely loves this part, even the burn that alcohol can't soothe and the brief feeling before the fullness feels pleasant, the moment of reconfiguration. The hollow of Yuuri's neck quickly grows damp from Chris's breath in the trapped space.

After a few minutes Yuuri can slide his second finger in easily, and Chris can't help the sound that escapes him. In this, too, Yuuri makes up for any possible lack of experience with sheer confidence and patience. He intuits what makes Chris moan and push back against him and exploits that knowledge mercilessly. Chris thinks of breaking in the leather of new skates and imagines himself molding to Yuuri the same way. 

Yuuri makes a contemplative noise. "You're so loose," he comments, a wondering lilt to his voice.

Chris laughs and pulls his head away from Yuuri's neck, looking down at him archly. "Yuuri. You can't just say things like that," he says, scandalized.

Yuuri is visibly rewinding his sentence in his head, translating Japanese and English back and forth. "No, no no," he says, giggling. "No, I mean, you're relaxed. You're so relaxed! Look," he continues, then shoves his fingers deep into Chris.

It's a good thing Chris isn't eighteen any more, because Yuuri's aim is impeccable and a younger man wouldn't have stood a chance. As it is, Chris just yelps and arches to push himself back just as hard, entreating Yuuri with every muscle in his body to _yes, please, do that again_. Yuuri obliges to the unspoken demand, and Chris reconsiders what he knows; there's _no way_ Yuuri doesn't at least do this to himself, because if nothing else he is really, truly, impossibly skilled at _this_ , specifically.

Chris's cock is throbbing, untouched; he knows he's probably dripping all over Yuuri's stomach under the barrage of sensation. He fumbles with the bottle of lotion and squeezes some out on his hand, having a mind to use it on himself and come with his own hand on his dick exactly the way he likes — but then he feels Yuuri shift under him, spreading his legs and tilting his ass up in invitation.

"Yeah?" he asks, arching a little so he can rub his knuckles down the seam of Yuuri's ass.

Yuuri shrugs, a shy smile on his lips. "Sure, yeah," he says.

 _Good enough_ , Chris thinks, and opens his hand to rub Yuuri all over with the lotion. The angle is too awkward with Yuuri's hand trapped under him, so Chris sacrifices a few precious moments of Yuuri's incredible fingers in him to spin around so he's straddling Yuuri but facing away. "Oh, this is good," he says, quite pleased at the way their cocks line up like this. He takes them both in one hand, Yuuri slides into him again, and Chris finally, _finally_ gets a piece of Yuuri's perfect little ass. 

Yuuri gasps and moans so prettily when Chris slips his finger between Yuuri's cheeks, wasting no time in rubbing at his hole until it gives way and Chris can sink one finger in. Yuuri doesn't even tense up, and Chris says a quick prayer of thanks for adventurous possibly-virgins everywhere before matching his pace to Yuuri's.

He's two fingers in and returning the favour of Yuuri's earlier onslaught, Yuuri cursing and getting louder and wilder under him, when Yuuri gives up on finesse altogether and pulls his fingers from Chris's hole. He digs them into the dense muscle of Chris's ass instead, all claws.

The noise it brings up from Yuuri is two-toned; low moans that seem to stretch on forever when Chris fucks him hard and fast, and high-pitched gasps when he relents. His feet kick on the bed, rucking up the comforter and the stupid little bed scarf that lies on top. He's so responsive it's almost a shame that Chris is turned the wrong way to see it.

Yuuri's dick jerks hard in his hand and Yuuri reaches between them to bat Chris away, taking himself in hand with a grip that looks too punishing to be pleasurable. Chris prefers a steady touch more than a firm one, but that's the whole spectrum of sexual pleasure for you. He lifts his hips to give Yuuri some space as Yuuri strokes himself slowly.

"Can I— just—" Yuuri mutters under his breath, grabbing Chris's asscheek with one hand and spreading him. With the other, he presses his dick lengthwise into the cleft and pushes his hands together, squeezing himself with Chris's glutes. "Yeah, yeah," he breathes. "Like that."

Chris is more than happy to oblige.

He raises himself up on his knees and grinds down, fucking Yuuri with the slick space he's made for himself with Chris's body. As far as sexual positions go, there's something charmingly teenage about it, like their chaperones might bust down the door at any moment. No teenager Chris ever bedded — including himself — knew quite how to move like Yuuri, though.

On every stroke, Yuuri's dick slides against his hole and Chris is greedy for it, every nerve there alight and begging for what comes next. It feels like standing at the edge of a precipice and wondering if the sensation of flying is worth the sudden stop at the end.

Yuuri squeezes and massages his glutes, breath high and thready — Chris isn't keeping it together either, not with the way Yuuri is so close to giving over what he really wants. The desire for more lights him up, single-minded, aching.

Yuuri is murmuring something in Japanese, over and over, something demanding that needs no translation to any language. Not with the way his thumbs hook Chris open, not with the way his cockhead rubs slow on Chris's spread hole on every upstroke. All it would take is a tilt of his hips and Chris could have him inside, could have it like he wants it, like he needs it. He's burning up with it. It's the best idea he's never had, in that it doesn't even feel like an idea more than it feels like the natural conclusion of their collision into one another.

He looks over his shoulder at Yuuri. Yuuri looks back at him, big eyes dark with lust, flushed red all the way from his hairline to his nipples. He's got his lip caught in his teeth.

 _Fuck it_ , Chris thinks, drunk on more than champagne now.

It's so easy to angle himself so Yuuri catches on the next stroke, resistance pulling every sweet anticipatory muscle taut until Chris's body gives way and Yuuri slips inside. They both gasp in unison at the transgression.

"Chris, Chris," Yuuri groans, but his hands pull Chris down. It's slow, even with the thorough fingerfucking earlier there's only so much hand lotion can do, but neither of them want to stop and get more — that would acknowledge the fact it's happening at all. Instead, Chris grits his teeth and bears down, feeling every slender inch of Yuuri as he bullies his way inside.

It's a long few minutes of push and pull, every bit of ground gained a hard-won victory against the little voice in Chris's head that begs him, _make good choices_. It sounds like his coach. Well, _fuck_ his coach, and fuck _Victor_ , for that matter, for being sanctimonious enough to bow out and leave him alone with this bit of temptation; he's got Yuuri Katsuki's naked cock inside him and it feels fucking incredible.

The light touch of his thighs meeting Yuuri's hipbones is reward and benediction both; Chris leans forward and braces himself on Yuuri's knees, just breathing. Fuck, it's good, it's so good to be filled like this, to feel his body cleave to someone else's.

Yuuri's hands run up and down his back, scratching lightly with nails. Chris peers back at him and Yuuri's smiling, gentle and fuckdrunk already. "You alright?" Yuuri asks. He sounds far away.

Chris nods, and Yuuri nods, and there's a few moments while they just smile sort of dumbly at each other before Yuuri snaps out of it and fishes the lotion out of the bedsheets. "Here," he says, quietly, and squeezes some out where they're joined.

It helps a little, on the way up, but it helps even more when Yuuri empties the rest of the bottle all over himself and Chris slides down again, the way easier by orders of magnitude. This time, when they both groan when Chris bottoms out again there's no ambiguity at all.

He's flagged a little in the interim, but his dick quickly regains an interest in the proceedings when Yuuri sits up so he can take Chris in hand. Back-to-chest, the closeness is just the right side of unbearable; Chris barely needs to rock his hips to get Yuuri deep, hitting him where he needs. He's not chasing that sharp pleasure any more, just the sublime kind that heats him up from the inside with the feeling of someone else becoming a part of you.

If Yuuri doesn't feel the same, he doesn't show it; he strokes Chris just as languidly as one could want in Chris's position, peppering his back with idle kisses. Chris twists back to loop one arm around Yuuri's neck, pulling him close. Yuuri fits just right under his arm, a bit of serendipity of the difference in their size. Chris can lean down to just barely touch his lips to Yuuri's. It just a breath too far to kiss properly, but it works because it's close enough to swallow the awed little noises that come out of Yuuri every time Chris seats himself down.

Yuuri's cock is like a hot brand in him, and Chris doesn't know if it's because he's never fucked someone without a condom and it's always like this, or because it's _Yuuri_ burning him up from the inside out. Or maybe it's just the way they are together, cracked open, joined together in this joint venture of drunkenness and victory and adrenaline and loneliness.

Chris doesn't feel lonely. Not now, and not in general, either. He doesn't know why the thought floats up to the surface of his mind but he banishes it with a twist of his hips, pushing down on Yuuri, baiting him to take the advantage and push Chris farther away from thoughts like those.

Yuuri huffs and twists his hand wickedly on Chris's cock, telegraphing his intentions as clear as words. He crosses his legs and Chris tips forward onto his hands, splayed unbalanced on the fulcrum where they meet. Slowly, preciously, he starts to move in Chris — one hand behind him for leverage, the other skimming up Chris's back with scratching nails to grab at his shoulder and pull him down.

And oh — _oh_ , that's right, Chris thinks.The pleasure of being curled over Yuuri's cock like this is blinding in its intensity, sending all other thoughts skittering like shadowed creatures from the light. Chris's arms buckle and Yuuri just rolls with it, getting up on his knees without even breaking their joining, pushing Chris down into the comforter with a commanding hand to the shoulderblades.

Chris fists his hand in the comforter and pulls it to his face, muffling the sounds that pour unbidden from his mouth. He's definitely going to come like this, he thinks, face down on the bed while a beautiful competitor he'd barely exchanged ten words with before today fucks him from behind. Bare. The thought breaks open a moan that feels like it starts all the way in his knotted core.

Yuuri's picking up speed and it's good, it's so fucking good: his hands on Chris's back, grabbing Chris by the hips and using him. His knees split Chris open, keeping his legs spread as Yuuri fucks him deep and hard.

Chris wants him to come. Not because it'll be over, but just because he wants it — wants to be filled up for the first time, wants that heat in him. He wants the full experience and he hasn't stopped himself from getting any part of it so far, so why stop now. Hell, Yuuri's younger, maybe he can— maybe he can come in Chris and then still go again— maybe they can go all night— maybe it doesn't have to end and Yuuri can just keep fucking him—

Chris's thought process breaks up and dissolves, every muscle in his body going tight as he holds the comforter to his face and shouts through his orgasm hitting him, the train at the end of the tunnel, splintering him into pieces as Yuuri doesn't even slow down, just keeps fucking and fucking until Chris is shaking, liquid.

He turns his head and gasps for air, blinking at the light. Yuuri leans down and bites him squarely on the shoulder, then leans in to kiss him, mouth open and panting. And like that, Yuuri fucks him right through oversensation to the trembling heights of _too much, too much_ , like a violin hanging on its highest note, but Chris wants it too badly to tell him to stop. He breathes through his teeth as Yuuri grabs him by the hair and holds on, feeling wetness bead up under his lashes.

"Chris, Chris," Yuuri groans, and Chris closes his eyes and gives himself over to it.

Finally — and too soon — Yuuri's pace falters and he leans all his weight on Chris, shoving himself inside a few final times before Chris feels everything get slick and warm inside. Yuuri's completely silent when he comes, just a bitten off gasp and a shudder that wracks him all over.

And then he's gone, slipping out of Chris as his body slumps forward, a heavy weight all along Chris's back that pulls them sideways. He wipes his mouth on Chris's shoulderblade and wraps his arms around him, and they catch their breath together for a few long minutes. It feels like there's something stuck in Chris's throat.

Chris can feel Yuuri's come slide out and trickle down his balls, a curious sensation that leaves him feeling — well, not great, if he's honest, as lust bleeds from him finally and leaves him slightly more clear-headed. He swallows thickly and scrubs his hand across his stubbled face. Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Yuuri makes a noise and flinches when Chris moves, stirring just enough to sit up and look blearily around the bed. They've gotten themselves completely turned around the wrong way on the bed, but Yuuri takes one look at everything and just pulls the edge of the comforter around him with a groan, nestling in along Chris's back. He's still awake though, tracing idle lines down Chris's spine.

"S'good," he murmurs.

Chris clears his throat. "Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

There's a longer silence, then Yuuri lays his hand flat on Chris's back. "Thanks," he says, impossibly quiet.

Chris takes a steadying breath. "Yeah."

Yuuri hums and curls up against Chris, resting his forehead on the nape of Chris's neck. They're both sweaty. Chris feels a clammy cold begin to creep in.

He has to collect himself. He has to decide what he's doing; does he pull his side of the comforter up across his legs and try to join Yuuri in the blissful sleep of the drunk and the well-fucked? Or does he tuck Yuuri in with a glass of water and some painkillers and slip away to his room before the rest of the world wakes up?

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, resolving to sit up. When Yuuri's breathing evens out a few minutes later, he slowly extricates himself from their tangled legs and slips off the bed. Wincing at the spend rolling down his legs, he opts to get dressed as quickly as possible and deal with it later. Thong, shirt unbuttoned, socks in the pocket of his shirt, and his pants — the solid thunk of his pocket on his thigh when he pulls them up is a relief. He still has his phone, and his hotel key slipped into the case as he usually does.

He pulls out his phone, breathing a sigh of relief. There's only one message on his lock screen, from just over an hour ago:

> _**Vitya**  
>  I have your jacket and shoes. Drinks? 1803._

Chris breathes out through his lips and dismisses the message. It's this floor; he could stop on his way. He and Yuuri had probably danced right by it. Victor was likely still awake — they both had trouble sleeping after wins, one of many reasons they got along so famously. He could go lie down on that big bed and watch Russian television for a few hours, decimate Victor's stash of nutritionist-approved snacks and debrief on the strange turn Chris's night had taken.

There's a questioning noise behind him and Chris turns, ready to give the usual song and dance — _so long, thanks for the orgasm, see you next time_ — but Yuuri just curls more into himself, one hand sneaking out to seek Chris in the space he left.

 _No,_ Chris thinks. _Maybe not this time_.

He thumbs up the camera on his phone and takes a shot of Yuuri to keep. It's innocent: messy black hair sticking out of a croissant of blankets, one hand outstretched. Bare toes poking out underneath, curled together. A perfect cap to the series of photos from the banquet. Chris smiles as he turns off his phone and slips it back in his pocket.

Chris considers the notepad on the nightstand briefly before leaning in to write, simply, _cheers_. He refills the water glass in the bathroom and brings Yuuri's bottle of aspirin out with him, leaving them both on the nightstand as well. No need to be an asshole just because he'd really, truly rather be anywhere other than this hotel room where he feels so strangely vulnerable all of a sudden.

He hits the overhead on the way out but leaves the bathroom light on, just in case Yuuri wakes up before dawn. The hotel room plunges into darkness, obscuring Yuuri's sleeping form. In the dark, some trick of the senses makes it easier to pick up his steady snoring.

Chris smiles to himself. _I wonder if he'll be at Worlds_ , he thinks as he closes the door.

It locks behind him, and he walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> I write! I draw! I make julienne fries! Your comments literally sustain me! Join me [on Tumblr](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com) for my fanart and other stuff!
> 
> This fic is remix-friendly: I give blanket permission for non-commercial translations, podfics, remixes, inspired fanfic, and fanart! Just let me know where you put it, so I can make sure others see it too!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Spoils (bad to worse remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301525) by [neomeruru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neomeruru/pseuds/neomeruru)




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